"For God hath not given us the spirit of fear . . . "

" . . . but of power, love, and of a sound mind."

I realized something (again) today: I am afraid. I'm afraid of lots of things, and that's what keeps me from progressing much of the time.

In rehearsal today, with one of my very favorite musicians of all time, I was TERRIFIED of playing something wrong, so I held back a lot of my enthusiasm and gusto from my performance. That's what always happens when I get scared: I withdraw, I try to shrink into the background. The thing is, though, my fear was 100% responsible for the fact that it wasn't as special an experience as it could have been. After the rehearsal, I went up to shake Mr. Meyer's hand. I had a million things in my head that I wanted to say, "I saw you at Bass Hall when I was probably 14, and it was one of the most influential performances I've ever been a part of" or "I love everything I've ever heard of yours" (etc.), but I got really scared when I was standing in front of him, so instead of saying any of that, I thrust my hand forward and muttered, "Thank you," as I walked away. Again, fear kept me from making a special experience.

Fear is a protective measure, so acting cautiously is a pretty good guard against personal injury, be it physical, emotional, or otherwise. However, it also significantly reduces the return of any given action. Sure, I can play a piece of music really cautiously, and not miss a note--but at the same time, I think it means that I didn't really PLAY a note either. Life is all or nothing; either you're in it all the way or you're not really in it at all.

Of course, I'm not just talking about music here. It seems, both generally and specifically, that I am in a period of my life ruled by the unknown. I am standing outside a door and I have no idea what will happen if or when I cross its threshold. It's kind of terrifying, yes, but I get the feeling that if I stick with caution and stay out on the stoop, I'll be missing out on a lot. I guess it's like skydiving or something: the scariest part is trying to convince yourself to take the jump, but after that--well, it's a hell of a ride.

Even if the your chute doesn't open and you end up plummeting to your oblivion, I bet you go out saying, "At least I was really LIVING."

So here's to giving up my spectator seat and jumping into the arena. I'm ready to be an active participant in my life, and perhaps get a few bumps and bruises along the way.